poorlycommunicated
I am a bird, probably
One writer's attempt to cope with the human experience.
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1.
There’s something really appealing about starting my villain arc these days
Of course the clothing looks so attractive
And all the best villains are queer coded anyways
Lord knows following a hero whose pronouns kept changing, would just get too confusing.
It would be too much!
And I am great at being too much.
I could be a villain you catch monologing on and on about something they find interesting,
And you would laugh
Because I would have forgotten what the plan was by the time I was finished talking
And the leaky apartment walls, and the plethora of back acne like a field of stars
Would just be a part of the look
A skin picking hero? Questionable.
But a villain who can’t quite keep their nails off themselves? Very doable.
I cry too, very easily.
Every emotion is grand and sweeping, constantly functioning at a ten.
You give me such shit for it.
And with a reputation, I might never have to put up with anyone’s shit again.
I think that’s why my brother maintains his reputation.
And I could buy my all my loves the things that they deserve, if I only took back from the rich a little
All the houses, and surgeries, and gardens, and foods that anyone could want!
I would still be working for this money of course
With the plots and the plans
But I wiuld be my only boss.
Being the villain means I would get to rest, and take days off
It would let me be selfish with my time, with my energy
I would be allowed to survive, and not thrive on days too hard to think
And thrive, not just survive, on days I can be my best.
I would be allowed to have all these things with no need for explanation.
I would get to savor my life of selfish free time
Selfish love of my chatter and my acne and my shitty little apartment
Selfish
Selfish
Self fucking adoration.
A villain who treats themselves to the good things of the world,
I would be the only god I pay tribute to.
I mean, fuck man
We are all getting screwed over anyways right?
Might as well get to sleep in too.
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you dont even know you broke my heart and thats so much worse. because its not a secret. its not a fucking secret. i would have told you myself if you let me. you are one of a growing number, where I am the only common denominator. is it my fault? do i have a face that says abandon me? lie to me? manipulate and use me? forget me? i wish i knew what it is you all see in me, so i could finally change it.
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Today I played Super Smash Bros Melee with friends, for hours.
And brought me a smile, because it felt like you.
And it felt like home until he takes a call from a girl who doesn’t know we’re competing
The one he chose to take a chance on, after saying I was a possibility.
After raising my hopes, she doesn’t know he crushed me with her as his hammer.
He plays your character, Marth, in white.
Final Destination.
And it feels like you.
It feels like I am you, in some sick retribution.
Almost laughable.
I try so hard not to be you, not to feel your sigh in my skin,
I wanna be a better man than you were.
I want to be kind.
I realize now how hard it is.
But I have to be better.
I have to be _better_.
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Like a mass of sickly sweet bubble gum,
I am cutting you out of my hair.
“I am such a straight guy, just the way your hair covers your tits, and how your hips move,”
I am cutting you out.
No treasuring what you have rotted before my very eyes,
And no living in the knots your confession tangled into my unkempt unwashed unhappy bedhead.
I kept the hair for you,
I wanna feel like me again.
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I am so much stronger than I have been,
And much stronger than I give myself credit for.
But could the universe maybe space this shit out a bit more?
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My heart lifts above me in the dark
Pulsating.
I want to be there.
I want to be out in the living room, on zoom, with my friends.
But I am so tired and so dead.
I am so tired,
I am so dead.
My partner is on that zoom call, my friends are there.
But our friend who didn’t/doesn’t treat me right is there.
I am too emotionally buried to put that smile on for them all.
Why don’t people treat me right?
I have done everything right, I put in the work, I am emotionally vunerable, communicative , and available.
So why don’t people treat me the way I should be loved?
My partner does, and if he can do it, then it should be possible.
Why do they lie to me? Why do people manipulate me? I am doing it right I think, but is it me?
I’m the common denominator.
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I cannot believe he lied to me, that he fucking lied to me, that he fucking lied to me AGAIN. Disingenuous is the word he used.
To him, I was a favor, a checklist item, a girl to be protected because she’s too fragile to be rejected or something like that.
He never wanted me. He never wanted me. He never wanted me.
I only wanted him.
And he lied.
I let him crawl inside my body because I thought he wanted me.
I may be free with my love and how I share it, but it is still fucking SACRED. Because I ONLY EVER want to give it to those who want me. Who want me.
I am not to be pitied.
He used me against himself, against myself.
He has poisoned the memory.
I am unclean.
I am, unclean.
And I told him I still wanted to be friends because I didn’t want to lose him.
And I told him,
I am going to finish your painting.
I want him to have wanted me.
I want him to never fucking touch me again.
Twice. TWICE. THIS was the SECOND TIME.
And I cannot breathe.
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I want your texts like how hungry your fingers felt on my waist.
And I am so in need of a call like it was our breathing hot and heavy.
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I wonder at the pain in my leg tonight.
If I ignore it, would it leave me be?
I have never tried too hard to ignore pain, because I get nervous that it will become more serious.
My mom thinks I am a bit of a hypochondriac.
But, usually, I’m right.
Or ar least right, a lot.
Maybe this time I am wrong though, and I should just rest it.
Thats what I am doing for my heart anyways.
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The warmth of the sun cradles me,
And dances over my all my peaks and valleys.
I need to go, I need to be a person today.
But how can I?
How can I leave this bed.
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The pigeons remind me a bit of my cats when they coo at my window,
But they do not snuggle up the same way.
I lay here, under the window.
I listen, and try to grasp what happy feelings I can get from these lovely birds.
This is only one hard moment about leaving home I have to face today.
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And the other girl texts me from his phone
She stole it and is snapping all his friends to be friendly
I am here looking at her face knowing that she is hanging out with him
Later than he’d ever let me stay
And I am trying not to grow angry
Trying not to be jealous
Cause I never laid claim to him at all
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If you were to hold me,
I would not complain.
If you were to leave,
I might try to wait until you hold me again.
I might be left waiting for seconds, it may be years, it may be for the rest of my life.
But on the chance you should hold me,
I would not complain.
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it feels a bit like a sore muscle when you text me,
or maybe more like the tired that fills your body when you have been using it a bit too much.
Fatigue that rests in the hollow part of my chest,
curled up against all the organs residing there.
everytime your name is on my screen, it nestles deeper.
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A lifetime of wanting fits into one body.
I am,
Full of souls.
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Cardboard
Cinnamon smoking, cinnamon on fire
My knuckle is red
Just one
And my cheek is scratched up
I look for who did this
And find the criminal in the caked red under my finger nail
I wish the hickey was still the good color it was two days ago
The cardboard matches it now
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I breathe in deep the scent of your sweater,
Wishing I knew what it was that made it smell so sweet to me.
I’ve been so reluctant to wash it,
I don’t wanna lose this piece of you,
Even if I know it’s just the brand of detergent your family uses.
Most detergents, I hear, are full of toxins anyways.
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